


A certain liquidity of the eye

by levi163



Series: Lonely Soldiers [2]
Category: Deadline Gallipoli (TV), Flammen & Citronen | Flame & Citron (2008), Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom
Genre: 1915, Diary/Journal, Extract from diary entry, First Kiss, Hannibal Extended Universe, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Mentions of war and death, POV First Person, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-06 13:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12212103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levi163/pseuds/levi163
Summary: War is not the place for love, and yet, a gaze held a moment too long changes everything.





	A certain liquidity of the eye

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [The Man on the platform](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5r8l_nyaPs), there will be small references to it. Check it out!
> 
> Massive thanks to [Sinny](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NightmareAntlers/pseuds/NightmareAntlers) for supporting me always, and love this ship as much as I do. I wouldn't be in deep in this hell if I didn't talk about them with you every day <3  
> Also big thanks to [Kate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starkaryen/pseuds/starkaryen) and [Firu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Firuflies/pseuds/Firuflies) for the multiple corrections, you helped me a lot!
> 
>  **Extra note** : This ficlet is based on what would have happened if Citron were in Gallipoli with Ellis. A little knowledge about the mini-series would be great for better understanding, but not strictly necessary.

There were little details about him. Where he came from, or what his name was, remained unknown for a big part of the soldiers. He wasn’t British, neither was he a colonial, that was a unanimous decision. He wasn't very talkative either, always on another plane of existence while War was all around us. Alone in a corner, with his steamed glasses and his maroon hair falling all over his eyes, he appeared to be waiting for something to happen, or for nothing at all.

It was difficult to understand what could be in his mind. Some said they had seen him writing letters, others repeated that alcohol was his greatest companion. Sleep, nevertheless, seemed an enemy, a long-time lost friendship.

Despite his strong appearance and his volunteer silence, he looked out of place. Lost, in the blood dripping in the battlefield or the rotten smell of more and more young men dying under the orders of an incompetent general. He didn’t seem made for violence, thus there was never a gun in his veiny, big hands.

He worked with the nurses, carrying wounded men. He was with the soldiers, preparing guns and ammunition. He helped with the mail and the provisions coming from the boats… Nevertheless, his eyes kept avoiding Death, eluding violence and the blank expression in the eyes of the soldiers he kept seeing in the infirmary of Imbros Island.

His whole attention was focused on maintaining people alive.

However, nobody knew his name. Or why he was there. _Did it matter?_ We were all trapped in this putrid hell, with the damned feeling of having Death himself sleeping a step apart from us. Here or there, it was upon us, bringing Loneliness with it.

Yet, I could see myself wondering where he was in the darkness of the night.

In the months we had been here, we hadn’t told a word to each other. _But he knew, and I knew._ Our existences kept finding each other, as the moon finds its way around the Earth. Perhaps because eventually, our paths connected, both trying to fight an incompetent leadership. I saw him once, while he engaged in a heated debate with Hamilton about the reduction on the water units. “Your men are dying!”, I could hear him screaming. “That is none of your business”, sounded like an accurate response Hamilton would have given him.

His eyes felt heavy on me, an inquisitive look. But there was no trace of his glance once I looked back.

There was no way for us to hit the Turks, and every time Victory appeared closer, the scales went back to the starting point. A step ahead, two behind. Us, we moved like that too. _To each one of his silences, I tried to find a word to end it_ … Only after the explosion, our worlds decided to collide, with the strength of a grenade and the strident sound of a storm.

If I try to remember the touch of his hand, _God knows I have tried_ , I can only recall a dusky sensation and the metallic pain in my mouth.

He smelled of gunpowder and sweat, the epitome of war, or Hell. He smelled like blood, or perhaps it was just me. His arms were rough and he was strong enough to carry me. For minutes, or hours, his body was the only pillar that sustained me on Earth.

I believe I asked him if he was Charon, dragging me to Hades, where I would finally sleep away from the moans and groans, the pain and the horror. Or perchance it was just a hallucination caused by the pain. A nightmare in the subconscious state I fell on our way to the infirmary.

His voice, rough, husky; I remember hearing words that I couldn’t comprehend. A distant echo escaping from fleshy, dark pink lips, with pointy fangs in a crooked line of teeth. All the silences we had kept among us vanished in seconds, and reality was hard to grasp. Upon the pain, I could feel the sensation of a steam hitting right on my lips, threatening to become my own breath. _Oh, I wish_. I still wish.

In the cold state of the anima threatening to leave the body, I discovered his warm honey eyes being able to keep me warm. And if that brief moment was meant to become the last thing I would see on Earth, I was willing to accept it. I was sure of that when I hid my nose on his neck, giving in to the pain.

 

He wasn’t there when I woke up, on the beach where the training camp was set. So I went back to my tent, like a dog licking his own wounds. The night was dark and the pain had disappeared when I left it, with a bottle of champagne as the only companion.

“You weren’t in the infirmary.”

On the small cape, where the journalists have been pushed, alone in the middle of the darkness was him. The small flame of his lighter illuminating his face, emphasising every feature of it.

“You treated yourself, didn’t you?”

He didn’t expect an answer, he already knew it. So I smiled, barely stretching my lips and he laughed. It felt like a tremor shaking the Earth.  

 _Why are you here_ , seemed the most logical question. It also seemed absurd.

Both attracted by the same force, as gravity pulls objects to its centre, we kept losing the battle against the need of proximity. Once beside him, the silence came back to establish itself between us, yet it didn’t create any new barrier. If there were any before, they were completely demolished now.

Only the sea made an appearance with the soft sound of waves, going back and forth until they dampened our boots, leaving an abstract pattern on them. _Come_ , he said grabbing my arm and pulling me to the sea, walking towards the deep waters.

Not a word was shared, and suddenly his hands were on my shirt, unbuttoning it. No explanations needed, he was free to undress me as I was when I took his shirt off.

A hiss, a weak sound I let escape from my mouth when his hand bathed the wound with salt water. I dared to touch his naked chest, a gaze of consent shared in a second before he started treating the wound again. This second time, I tugged his chest hair and waited for the pain to arrive.

He moved with more care than the first time. And then he stopped. His brown, hazel eyes looking into mine, emanating the same warmth as his hand.

I thought of Gwen. Of how despite our many years together, we never shared that amount of intimacy.

I wasn't so willing to wait for him to move this time. So I leaned closer to his face, his eyes giving me warmth once again. The sound of the sea between us being the only noise apart from our heavy breathing.

It was a surrender. Weak and strangely soft. It was hunger and thirst, and then it was nothing but an embrace, a kiss between two pinning lovers. Perhaps that was what we were, two men desperate to feel alive. At least that’s how I felt, _alive_. As if every time our lips collided and met, I could die and live in the short timelapse between every kiss.

Were he an ally or an enemy, I had lost the war. There, against his lips, desperate as if he was the only source of air, the only way to be warm in a cold world crashing down. I felt like dying when the separation happened. His hot breath caressed my lips one last time.

“Jørgen,” he said, breaking the silence, not too long after the kiss. As if he wanted me to know what to whisper in my darkest and loneliest nights. “Jørgen,” he repeated, and I followed the movement of his lips, becoming deaf for a second. I didn't dare to repeat it, and this time he chuckled. "People around call me Citron."

Yet, he didn’t taste like any citric. He tasted strong, like tobacco, and a small hint of something sweet. And I wondered if I could taste him again, because my eyes were still there, in his fleshy, pink lips.

Again, _a gaze held for a moment too long._ This time, he was looking at me as well.

“You…,” but there was a silence. Breathless, both of us trapped in an eternal gaze. “...should get that wound bandaged.” Suddenly, a chuckled, “The infirmary is lacking even that,” he took his wet shirt and, after a couple of attempts, the cloth ripped and part of the sleeve became an improvised bandage. “Not even water…” with a small knot, he tied the cloth into my arm.

"You should rally some men..." It could have been a mistake. "The generals have water, you could take enough for a couple of dozens..." perhaps the thousands of wounded and dying men didn’t have time to look for someone to blame, but it felt like **we** should do something.

"Be careful," I believe we both wanted to say.

 

When thoughts settled under the twinkling lights of my tent, I discovered what was the sweet taste of your lips: justice. I felt drunk on it and recall it every night, especially when I wrote the letter that was meant to change it all.

I didn't expect it to change the world like that. _Our world._ Did I expect to be released from my duties as a war correspondent? It was a possibility. A risk I was willing to take. A risk I regretted when your eyes looked deep into mine and desperation was the only feeling to be found there.

  _I'm sorry._

 I know you would have done the same. Or so I try to convince myself at night while I recall my last day on the Imbros island.

And I swear, I put all my strength in trying to break the contact when you came to say goodbye, I tried to take my eyes out of you. One of us had to make this easier and yet. _Yet_ . I hoped the world would stop for a bloody minute so I can stare a little longer. Just a little bit longer. You held my hand and I waited for every one of my bones to break, that's the only way I want to let it go. Instead, you kissed it and I held harder, whereas the sadness in your eyes broke my heart stop and turn into two different pieces. One of them, the biggest and kindest one, will always stay with you. I knew, I know **now**.

You wanted to say something, I could feel it in my throat, a pain, a desperation. A scream. But the boat kept entering the waters, and even if you walk with us, following it, the contact broke and that's the moment the sea turns into tears, and I realized my whole mistake.

I should have listened to you. I should have been careful. But I couldn't let Hamilton win. I couldn't let those men die. Wherever you are, I know you are proud of my decision, even if you are the only one.

Now I just look for his name on the newspaper, letting a puff of smoke escape every time I can't find you. You are alive, and so am I. Falling asleep to the touch of his lips kissing my fingers, as we promise in silence that someday, somewhere, worlds will collide and you and I will be together.

 


End file.
